


Lost At Sea (But I Am Home)

by there_must_be_a_lock



Series: Marked [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Handcuffs, Kink Negotiation, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Dean’s always been oddly fascinated by the old maps he finds in the archives and the library of the bunker. There are whole cabinets of them, some organized neatly in labeled drawers, some just a messy jumble of yellow-edged rolls of paper. Some are recent. Others are decades old, hand-drawn on thick parchment with labels in spidery calligraphy.The oldest ones were drawn before the world had been fully explored, back when entire continents were still a mystery. There are drawings at the edges of those maps, tiny, impeccably inked, depicting sea dragons looping in and out of the water, or giant squid emerging from the waves of ink to take down huge wooden ships. In flourishing script there’s the annotation, “here there be monsters.”There’s something ironic about that. Monsters aren’t confined to the edges of Dean’s world, and they don’t lurk in the terrifying unknown dark places. They’re abso-fucking-lutely everywhere.Monsters are easy, always have been. It’s people he doesn’t get.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You
Series: Marked [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517636
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> We show great loyalty to the hard times we’ve been through.  
> We are filled with riches and wonders.  
> Our love keeps the things it finds,  
> and we dance like drunken sailors,  
> lost at sea, out of our minds.  
> You find shelter somewhere in me, I find great comfort in you.  
> And I keep you safe from harm.  
> You hold me in your arms.  
> And I want to go home, but I am home.
> 
> “Riches and Wonders,” The Mountain Goats
> 
> This is a sequel, sort of, to Marked.

Dean used to think that love might feel like safety. 

When he pictured a relationship, a family, a partner, he used to picture apple pies and picket fences. Love, in his mind, was always tied to comfort, PB&J with the crusts cut off, security, and all the other things he knew he’d never have again. The person he is, the things he does… he wasn’t meant for that soft kind of love. 

Dean’s gotten so used to hiding his softness behind sharp edges and impenetrable walls that sometimes he forgets it’s still there. The sort of woman he once thought he could love would be shredded to pieces before she could get close to it. 

Then he met _her_. 

When he tries to talk about it, tries to describe the way she makes him feel, he ends up stuttering and stumbling over the words, because it’s nothing like a quiet house on a suburban street. It’s not _safety_ that he feels when he looks at her; it’s nothing so simple as that. She makes him feel about as safe as a fucking hurricane, except that when the wind is howling around them, when rain is falling and the churned-up waves are rising, Dean looks at her and knows, with absolute certainty, that in spite of the storm raging around them and within them and between them, they’re going to be okay. 

So, yeah, Dean was wrong about love. He’s starting to realize that he was wrong about a lot of things. 

*

Dean storms into the kitchen and almost rips off the cabinet door in his haste to get a glass, and he doesn’t notice Cas sitting at the table until he’s slamming the whiskey bottle down on the counter and going for the first gulp. 

Cas just raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t give me that,” Dean grumbles. He knocks back the rest of the glass and pours another before sitting down across from Cas, slumping in his chair and glaring down at the pitted surface of the table like it’s done him some personal wrong. 

“You had an argument,” Cas says, gravelly and implacable. 

“You listening in?” 

“It wasn’t a conscious effort. More like an unfortunate inevitability.” 

Dean winces. “Guess we were a little loud at the end there.” 

“Yes.” 

Cas doesn’t ask. He just sits there, drinking his tea. Dean really didn’t intend to spill his guts, but _fuck_ , his thoughts are rattling around in his skull, too loud to hold in. 

“When something’s wrong, you’re supposed to fix it,” Dean blurts out. “Right?” 

“What sort of thing are we talking about here?” 

“Just… she was pissy all day. Fuckin’ _quiet_ , and trying to avoid me, and… fuck, I don’t know, I just kinda snapped eventually. Mighta lost it on her a bit. And she was having one of those days, I guess. Had a nightmare last night.” 

“And… you apologized?” 

“Well, yeah. She just wasn’t having it, said she needed space to sort through it on her own. ” 

“And that bothers you.” 

“Fuckin’… _yeah_. Because if she’s mad at me, I’m the one who’s gotta fix it, right? I’ve gotta take care of it, I’ve gotta make things right, and she just won’t fuckin’ _let_ me. How the fuck am I supposed to make her feel better if she won’t let me?” 

“Did you ask her that?” 

“Well, yeah. She said it wasn’t anything I could fix, it was just… something she had to deal with. Went to work, wouldn’t let me drive her. The fuck am I supposed to do with that?” 

Cas gives him a look like he’s being the densest motherfucker on the planet. 

Dean scowls down at his glass and takes another sip, trying to sort through the tangle of his emotions. His insides are a _mess_ , disorderly and beyond his control, and it’s infuriating. 

“I wish I could fuckin’ _do_ something,” he says softly, swallowing around the knot in his throat. “I want to just… take care of it for her. Make it better.” 

“Even though she said you couldn’t,” Cas prods. 

Dean shrugs helplessly. “If she’d just _let_ me,” he says feebly, all too aware that he sounds petulant and whiny. 

Cas rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off, Cas. She’s just… out there. Walkin’ around without me, and I don’t know what she’s thinking, and there’s nothing I can _do_.” 

“What exactly are you afraid of?” 

Dean bristles. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then takes a sip of whiskey to cover his confusion. 

“I just don’t like it,” he admits gruffly. “Not being able to do anything.” 

“Did she say she’d be home later?” 

“Yeah. After work.” 

“You know that she loves you.” 

“Fuckin’… _yeah_ , Cas, Jesus.” 

“You believe this is something you’ll work through?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, without hesitation, almost surprised by how much he believes it. 

“You trust her. You know she can take care of herself.” 

“Yes. What… what’s your point?” 

“My point is that she is a grown woman, a remarkably capable and strong one at that, and there are going to be moments when she does not want you to fix her, or take care of her, or make things right for her. Clinging to the illusion of control is only going to make things worse.” 

Dean feels like a fish, opening and closing his mouth stupidly. Part of him wants to get angry; it would be easier than dealing with the uncomfortable ache in his chest. He knuckles at his eyes and takes another drink. 

“Fuck, Cas, don’t sugarcoat it or anything,” he mumbles. “Should never’ve introduced you guys.” 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but…” Cas shrugs. 

Dean makes a face at him. There are a few minutes of comfortable silence as he listens to the ever-present background whisper of the air circulating through the bunker, like the lungs of some gigantic underground beast, and to the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. 

“I miss her,” he says hollowly. 

Cas gives him a wry little half-smile. “I believe they call this personal growth.” 

Dean scowls. “Don’t patronize.” 

“You weren’t the one slamming the door behind you. You admitted you wanted her to stay. That’s new, for you. Growth.” 

If Cas wasn’t so fucking right, Dean would probably hate him right now. As it is, he has all too many memories of walking out on Cas, or shoving him toward the door… it’s either cry or laugh, at this point, so Dean digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and huffs out a laugh. 

“Shove it up your feathered ass. You gonna have a drink with me, or what?” 

*

Years ago (probably before he was technically old enough to be meeting girls in bars) Dean met a girl — Sasha? Sandra? — in a bar. He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers the freckles on her pale shoulders and the long corkscrew curls that framed her face when she lay down, like a tangled halo on the pillow. 

After, as they caught their breath, Dean played with her hair, twisting one curl around his finger and releasing it again, fascinated by the way it bounced back into its spiral. He remembers putting his arms around her and telling her she was beautiful, and he remembers that she looked away, eyes suddenly shuttered. 

“It’s okay,” she said softly, and started looking for her shirt. “You don’t have to pretend it means anything. That was fun.” 

He learned quickly, from her and from others, what was expected of him. They wanted him to be confident, if not cocky; strong, but not too rough; kind, but not exactly sweet… they wanted him to be charming, and fun, and not much more than that. Above all, they wanted him to leave. 

He learned. Leaving became second nature. Leaving was better than waiting around for the inevitable day that _they_ would leave. 

Women didn’t want tenderness or romance, at least not from him. Maybe they wanted those things from someone who might stick around, but Dean would never be that guy. Dean might be the thrilling story they told their friends the next day, a fondly scandalous memory, _just_ dangerous enough to feel like an adventure: _I can’t believe I did that._

He learned to take what he could get. He learned to separate the emotional from the physical. He learned to hold back, to tell stories without showing the scars they’d left, to share tiny slices of the truth without ever really revealing the messy whole. He learned to wall off his soft, vulnerable places. Nobody wanted to see those. 

It was easy to put those walls up, even easier to hide behind them. Dean started to think he was safe there. He thought his carefully constructed fortress was stronger than any storm. Then _she_ happened. 

She keeps proving him wrong. Dean’s getting used to it. 

*

She still hasn’t gotten home yet, by the time Dean bids a bleary-eyed goodnight to Cas. She had the late shift, and he _knows_ that, but his stomach is jittering cold under the blanket of whiskey heat, and he doesn’t expect sleep to come easy. 

He hears the echo of Cas’s voice as he tumbles into bed: _you know that she loves you._

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, there’s wet heat and suction enveloping his cock, and he’s thrusting up into her mouth helplessly, rock-hard, gasping her name into the darkness before he’s fully conscious. Dean’s caught in the limbo between waking and sleeping, trying to separate reality from his dreams, but this feels too good to be a dream. Dean’s never dreamed anything this good. 

She’s rubbing her thumb along the cut of his hipbone, stroking sweetly even as her tongue does something that should probably be illegal. He reaches down and grabs her hand, lacing their fingers together, and she lets out a low, pornographic moan, her throat vibrating around the head of his cock. 

“C’mere,” Dean pleads, hoarse and sleep-slurred. She pulls off with an obscene slurping sound and crawls up his body. She must’ve taken off her jeans before she got in bed, but she’s still wearing her shirt and underwear, and Dean’s pretty sure he hears something rip as he wrestles with the fabric. If the harsh way she’s panting is any indication, she doesn’t care either. 

“I’m sorry,” she says fiercely. 

“Missed you,” he whispers. His voice sounds broken, pathetic, but it doesn’t matter; she’s _here_ , warm and soft in his arms as they fumble in the darkness. 

She’s finally naked, straddling him, and Dean reaches for her blindly, pulling her down for a kiss that’s more of a clash of teeth when they both misjudge the angle. Dean wraps an arm around her lower back and crushes her to his body, fisting the other hand in her hair, holding on for dear life as they exchange deep, bruising, biting kisses. She clings right back, fingers stroking his jaw and his neck like she’s trying to read the Braille of his skin and bones. 

Dean’s breathless by the time she breaks the kiss to wriggle back and line up. His eyes have adjusted enough that he can see the faint silhouette of her body, charcoal against jet-black, but the important thing is the way she _feels_ , like solid ground or safe harbor in a storm. 

He thrusts up helplessly, stuttering out a nonsense string of vowel sounds as she takes him in all at once, slick and welcoming. Dean’s spine bows with the way it drags pleasure from every part of his body, wrenching and twisting through him, winding him tight. She leans in and rests her forehead against his, so close they’re breathing the same air. Dean digs his fingers into her hips and feels the way she flutters around him, smooth silky wet skin, living heat, pulsing like a heartbeat as his body answers with its own heavy thud of arousal. 

“You came home,” he chokes out. 

“Of course I did,” she says. 

She rocks her hips and Dean surges up to meet her, grinding in deep, pulling her down against him. He’s closer to her than he’s ever been to another person, and it’s never close enough. 

_Home._

*

Dean considers himself a giver, when it comes to sex. 

It’s always been a point of pride: no matter how casual it was, no matter how easy it was to walk out the door afterward, he put his partner first. Not like it was a fucking chore, anyway. He’s heard stories, heard the way women talked about other men, and it genuinely confuses him sometimes; those men have no idea what they’re missing. 

It’s not often, in his line of work, that he gets to make people just _feel good_. He hasn’t brought anything positive into the lives of most people he’s met; he’s brought danger, and bloodshed, and nightmarish fucking violence. Those rare moments when Dean can bring someone _pleasure_ , instead, have always felt like a gift. 

He remembers the first time he figured it out, the way the girl (Jenny? Jessie?) sounded when he found the right spot, the face she made, the way she twitched around his fingers, and he remembers the awed, wonder-struck glow in his chest. He remembers thinking, _**I** did that_. It was satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with his own orgasm. 

Getting off is great and all, but Dean’s never cared too much about comfort or pleasure. He takes a utilitarian approach to the basic needs of his own body, whether it’s sex, food, sleep, or whatever else. He’s always been fine with his hand, a burger, and four hours of shuteye on a crappy motel bed. He’s never asked for much more than that. 

Watching someone else enjoy themselves, though? That’s worth taking his time, doing it right, appreciating every moan and every spasm of pleasure that flickers over her features. It’s not so much about what he wants. It’s about what he has to give. 

*

Dean’s never been a morning person, but he’s starting to understand the appeal. It’s just them, in the morning, before they’ve had time to pull on the invisible armor they wear when they have to face the rest of the world. It’s a nakedness he never thought he was capable of. 

He wakes half-sprawled across her, one arm over her chest and a leg hooked over her thigh, like he was worried about her escaping from him in dreams. His face is tucked into the side of her neck. He inhales deep, immersed in the smell of her shampoo and her sweat and her skin. 

He traces the soft lines of her body, running a feather-light touch from the round of her shoulder, across her collarbone, down the center of her chest and then back up to map the curve of the underside of her breast. He rubs his thumb back and forth over her nipple, feeling the skin start to respond to his touch just as she sighs and stirs, and then he trails his fingers down to brush the inside of her thighs, down and up, one and then the other. 

It’s not like he’s trying to tease, he just can’t stop _touching_ her. He could spend eternity running his fingers over her smooth skin, dips and curves and hollows and swells like an entire landscape under his hands. He maps it all, awed, until she’s breathless and squirming. 

In the end she just grabs his wrist and _shoves_ it down, showing him exactly what she wants. She holds him there, cupping her hand over his, rocking up, hot and slick under their entangled fingers. 

Dean waits until she’s trembling, straining, _close_. 

“On your side?” he whispers, and kisses her cheek. He doesn’t pull his fingers away, just rolls with her and fits himself against her back. She arches, raises one knee, and she lets out this desperate throaty moan when he has to move his hand for a second to adjust, but then he sinks in and he can feel her shudder down to her toes. 

He’s been so focused on her that he didn’t realize how hard he is, but he’s dizzy with it, suddenly, like every drop of blood is rushing to his dick and throbbing, his nerve endings on fire with the searing slippery friction of her body opening up for his. Jesus, he’s so close it should be fucking embarrassing. 

She’s whimpering on every breath, clenching and dripping around him as she grinds into her hand. Dean reaches forward and slides his fingers under hers again, and he can feel the way she squeezes, muscles pulsing in waves of silky heat. He rolls his hips and she arches her back, biting out an anguished sound. 

They’re barely moving, rocking against each other gracelessly without the leverage for more, just a push-pull-shove-tug that builds into something powerful and unavoidable. Dean can feel it pounding through him with every shallow thrust and every little groan. He’s losing control, swamped by the sensations, barely holding on. 

Dean focuses on the way she feels under his fingers, the rhythm, pressing and circling, working her just the way she likes. 

“Not yet,” she gasps, practically writhing in his arms. “Want to feel you.” 

“So fuckin’ close, just -” 

She hisses, grabbing his wrist in a steely-strong grip like a handcuff and forcing his hand away as she snaps, “Dean, _come for me_.” 

He can’t help himself. It hits him _immediately_ , sucks him under, sweeps him up and whirls him around, until all that’s left is how fucking _good_ it feels: her sweaty skin against his, her soaked cunt squeezing him over and over again as she comes, wringing it out of him, and her fingers bruisingly tight, a bright spark of not-quite-pain around his wrist, as pleasure twists in his gut and spirals out and carries him away. 

He’s dimly aware of the way she’s shaking, the sound of her voice, but it takes a conscious effort to understand the ragged words: “So good, Dean. So fucking incredible, feeling you fall apart for me.” 

They’re both trembling. She loosens her grip on his wrist and brings his hand to her mouth, kissing the center of his palm and then every fingertip in turn. The sweat between them starts to tickle as it cools. 

She turns in his arms, pulling back to look at Dean with a sparkling smile and a curious, level gaze. He can see the gears working behind her eyes, cogs clicking into place, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what she’s _seeing_ as she stares. Then it clears, and she’s just beaming at him, giving him the same open, tender expression he sees every morning when they wake up together. He can see it all over her face, how much she loves him. 

Dean’s not sure what he did to deserve that smile, but he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to earn it. 

*

He’s heard it so many times: _take care of your brother._

It wasn’t just Sam, though. It was always very clear to Dean that being a man, being strong, meant protecting others. It meant making the hard choices, putting on a brave face, shouldering the weight so that others didn’t have to… no matter how he felt, no matter how hard it was sometimes, his job was to take care of the people he loved. 

He remembers smiling, hugging his mom, trying to make her smile again: _It’s okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too._

He remembers putting a hand on his dad’s shoulder, looking into bloodshot eyes: _It’s okay, Dad. I’m really glad you’re home._

He remembers setting his jaw, holding his head high: _Shoot first, ask questions later. Watch out for Sammy._ He remembers that curt, military nod he got in return: _That’s my man._

So that’s what Dean did. He protected people. When he loved someone, he did whatever it took to keep them safe. It was the foundation on which he built his entire life; it was the cornerstone of every structure, every wall, everything that held him up and held him together and kept him from falling apart. 

_You’re going to be okay, Sammy. I’ve got this. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got it all under control._

Then _she_ happened. He couldn’t keep her safe from _himself._ He failed. 

He tried to push her away, after. He tried to rebuild all those walls, for her sake, but she just knocked them down again. She demolished everything, right down to his crumbling foundations, and she loved him not in _spite_ of what she saw in the wreckage, but _because_ of it. 

Dean has always believed that he isn’t a man, isn’t strong, isn’t worth loving, if he can’t protect the people around him. She claims he’s wrong. He was skeptical, at first, but she keeps coming home to him; it’s hard to argue with that. They’re building something new together, and it feels solid. 

*

“Get your fucking moose hands off me, Sam, I’m fine,” Dean snarls. “Mother _fucker_ , you’d think I never needed stitches before. Stop fussing.” 

Sam lets go of his arm with a huff, and Dean sits down on the bed a little harder than he meant to. 

“Welcome home,” she says flatly from the doorway. 

“Maybe you’ll have better luck with him, I give up,” Sam growls. He shoulders past her, closing the door behind himself. 

“It’s really not a big -” 

“Lie the fuck down, you moron,” she snaps, eyes blazing. “Bad enough you have to go and get yourself half-torn to pieces. If you make things even worse because you’re too fucking stubborn to deal with basic first aid, I swear to _god_ -” 

She’s got that _face_ on, the one that means it’s pointless to argue. 

“ _Okay_. Okay, see? Lying down. Jesus.” 

Dean settles back against his pillows, trying to hide his wince as the movement sets off shooting pains down his side. She stands next to the bed, looking down at him, and her jaw is set as she takes in the big gash across his ribs and the swollen punctures in his shoulder, visible through the shredded, blood-stained remains of his shirts. 

“We’re gonna have to take care of that,” she says briskly, but her voice is shaking. Dean can see the fear in her eyes, and guilt twists in his ribcage. 

“I can deal with it,” he protests automatically. “It’s not a big deal, I’m fine, you don’t have to -” 

“Dean,” she interrupts. “ _Don’t._ It’s me.” 

_I’m fine, it’s not a big deal, I don’t need you._ It’s the first line of defense, has been for as long as Dean can remember. In all those years, she’s the first person who really bothered to break through. She makes it look easy, too, like a tornado going through a crooked old fence. 

Dean feels off-kilter and flayed bare, suddenly. Now that he’s not bothering to keep up appearances, he just feels raw inside, like the monster clawed something deeper than his skin. 

She bustles around for a moment, gathering up bandages and antiseptic, and Dean’s throat feels too tight. He _missed_ her. He always misses her, and now instead of letting him hold her, kiss her, touch her, she has to patch him up… and part of him is so pathetically grateful that he doesn’t have to do it himself, even though he knows that he _could_. He can take care of himself. _He_ should be the one taking care of _her_. 

He just wants to hold her. He wants to reassure them both that he’s still breathing, that he’s home, that he’s safe. 

She comes back with scissors. She gently moves the ruined flannel aside and then snips up the front of the t-shirt, biting her lip intently and then scowling as she pulls the fabric away from his skin to reveal the livid bruises that are already blossoming across his chest. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he tries. His voice cracks on the last word, and her eyes snap up to meet his gaze. She opens her mouth to argue, pauses, frowns, then closes it again. 

She’s studying him. Dean feels a prickle of embarrassment, cheeks flushing under the weight of her stare. 

“What is it?” she asks softly. 

He wants to say, _just come here, hold me_. He can’t seem to force the words past his lips. 

Dean raises his less-injured shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. It hurts. He rolls his eyes at himself and clenches his jaw. He can’t quite look at her. 

She watches for another second, and then she sighs, putting the scissors down on the nightstand. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “Can you sit up? At least help me get that off you.”

She slides into bed carefully, doing her best not to jostle him, and Dean sits up, gritting his teeth against the pain. She helps him ease the remains of both shirts off his shoulders and then tosses them aside. Dean settles back, fitting himself under her outstretched arm, shifting slightly onto his good side so that he can rest his cheek on her chest. He has to squeeze his eyes shut tight to ignore the way they’re burning. 

“I’m really glad you’re home,” she says, hoarse and fervent. She brings her free arm up to cup her hand to his cheek, and her thumb brushes back and forth in a soothing, mindless rhythm. 

Dean wants to apologize, wants to reassure her, wants to thank her… he fucking _hates_ scaring her. 

He wants to promise that he’ll never scare her again, but that would be a lie. He wants to ask why she bothers, but they’ve had that conversation one too many times before; Dean’s starting to accept that there’s nothing he can do or say to convince her that she’d be better off without him. She’s stubborn that way. 

“I love you,” she says softly. “I got caught up. I’m sorry.”

Jesus, Dean can barely _breathe_. 

He wants to ask, _What did I do to deserve you?_ He wants to ask, _How do you always know?_

“Just for a minute,” he whispers. 

“As long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.” 

He’s choking on all the things he wants to say, variations on _thank you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I love you_. 

He listens to her heartbeat, feels the rise and fall of her chest under his cheek, takes in the smell of her shampoo, and he reminds himself that he’s home. 

It’s nothing like the home he used to dream of; he lives in a bunker, no fucking picket fence in sight. He’s bleeding from a half-dozen places, and no matter what he might think in the brief stretches of peace between apocalypses, he’s never really safe. 

In this quiet moment, she could be mistaken for the soft sort of woman he used to imagine falling in love with, but she’s so much _more_ than that. This tornado of a woman is sharp and tough and smart enough to break through every wall of bullshit he hides behind, and it’s _terrifying_ , being exposed like that, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It’s not what he pictured, but this is home. This is love. 

He doesn’t say anything. He has a feeling she’ll understand anyway; she always does. 


	2. Two

Dean’s always been oddly fascinated by the old maps he finds in the archives and the library of the bunker. There are whole cabinets of them, some organized neatly in labeled drawers, some just a messy jumble of yellow-edged rolls of paper. Some are recent. Others are decades old, hand-drawn on thick parchment with labels in spidery calligraphy. 

The oldest ones were drawn before the world had been fully explored, back when entire continents were still a mystery. There are drawings at the edges of those maps, tiny, impeccably inked, depicting sea dragons looping in and out of the water, or giant squid emerging from the waves of ink to take down huge wooden ships. In flourishing script there’s the annotation, “here there be monsters.” 

There’s something ironic about that. Monsters aren’t confined to the edges of Dean’s world, and they don’t lurk in the terrifying unknown dark places. They’re abso-fucking-lutely everywhere. 

Monsters are easy, always have been. It’s people he doesn’t get. 

*

She grins, satisfied and sleep-rumpled, scritching her fingers through the overgrown bristles on his cheeks. “Scruffy-lookin Nerf Herder.” 

“Who’s scruffy-lookin’?” Dean retorts, without missing a beat, and leans in for a kiss. “God, you’re cute when you quote Star Wars at me.” 

“Only then?” 

“All the time,” he amends. “Sorry about the beard burn. My arm’s still all fucked, shaving’s not something I’m gonna try left-handed.” 

“Let me help,” she says easily, and Dean pulls away to study her, taken aback for reasons he doesn’t totally understand. She just shrugs. 

“You don’t need to,” Dean protests half-heartedly. 

“No biggie. Besides, I kinda like it when you can get your mouth between my legs without, like, doing serious damage. Please let me help?” 

Dean makes a face, but he can’t really argue with that. “Later. Maybe.” 

“Nope. You need a shower in a pretty urgent way right now. Shower first, then shave. The steam is good for the hair follicles.” 

“Where do women learn this shit?” he mumbles.

“It’s automatically implanted in our brains when they install the vagina,” she says, voice dripping sarcasm with every crisp syllable. 

Dean tries not to think about it while they shower, but he can’t help it. He’s fuckin’ _nervous_. This is fuckin’ _bizarre_. He’s been shaving for fucking long enough, he knows exactly how he likes to do it, and he likes to do it _himself_. It goes against something in his genetic code to let another person hold a razor to his neck. 

That thought sparks a memory: something else seeing through his eyes, holding out a knife, _do it_. He shivers. Even more reason for him to worry. It still amazes him, sometimes, that she could forgive him for the things he’s done; if it was anyone else, Dean would be watching his back around them for the rest of his life. He still hasn’t forgiven himself. 

It doesn’t help that she insists on using _his_ razor. It’s an old-fashioned one, a long straight blade, and Dean keeps it _sharp_. He found a whole kit in the bunker when they moved in, complete with a big soft brush for lathering the soap, and it had almost been a joke the first time he tried it, but he hasn’t gone back. There’s something about the whole process that he loves; it’s soothing, the focus and the precision and the routine of it, like a ritual. 

More importantly, it’s just a really damn close shave. 

He keeps everything in their room, at the little washbasin, so when they’re done in the shower they head back there. She pulls the desk chair over to the sink and has Dean sit as she runs a washcloth under the tap, the water as hot as it’ll go, before wringing out the fabric. Dean tugs on the belt of her bathrobe and tries to pull it open, but she’s all business, and then she puts the damp, steamy cloth over the bottom half of his face just as he opens his mouth to grumble. 

“You’re getting the full spa treatment and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She smirks. “Now, lean back with your head against the edge of the sink.” 

He scowls and adjusts the towel around his hips, feeling silly and exposed, and leans back, watching out of the corner of his eye while she finishes setting everything up. He almost pulls the washcloth off, just to make a point, but settles for making faces whenever she glances his way. Much as he hates to admit it, the steam does kinda feel good. 

She pulls the washcloth away and raises the brush, spreading foam over his cheeks with quick, gentle movements. She looks completely calm, focused, forehead wrinkled with her little frown of concentration, leaning in close enough that Dean can feel the puff of her breath on his skin. 

“Okay,” she says. “Ready?” 

Dean wants to say no, but his mouth is covered in soap. He gives her a resigned shrug instead and she giggles. 

She sets a damp cloth on the edge of the sink, within easy reach, and then she stands right in front of him, between his spread knees, leaning in close. With one hand, she tilts his chin down, fingertips five light points of pressure along his jaw and neck. With the other, she lifts the razor slowly, and Dean closes his eyes, barely daring to breathe. 

The metal is a quick, cool pressure down the line of his jaw, a rasp that he feels more than hears. The patch of clean skin she left behind feels cold and exposed. 

Dean lifts his left hand instinctively to double check that she was close enough, and her free hand grabs his wrist before he can touch. He opens his eyes to see the way she’s looking down at him reproachfully, one eyebrow raised. 

“Trust me,” she says, with a tiny smile, pulling his wrist back down to his side. 

Dean shivers. “I do.” 

“Keep your head right there for me,” she directs softly, and Dean closes his eyes again. 

She’s still holding his wrist. She tightens her fingers, a reassuring little squeeze, as her other hand presses the razor to his skin again. 

He barely feels the scrape of the blade. She’s delicate about it, more gentle than he’s ever been himself. He exhales carefully as the pressure lifts, holding completely still. 

“Chin up for me,” she whispers. “Perfect. Just like that.” 

She’s still holding his wrist, and Dean wonders if she can feel his pulse. It’s slowing, gradually, as he gets used to the repetitive _snick_ sound of the razor cutting through bristly hair, the rhythm of it with the barely-there sound of her wiping lather on the damp cloth, the cool fluttery strokes of metal on his skin. 

The air feels too thick and Dean’s head feels too heavy. He can’t think straight, can’t really think at all, so he stops trying; he lets himself just _be_ , holding himself in place for her, still and steady. 

“Almost there,” she soothes. “Breathe for me.” 

She’s still holding his wrist. Her fingertips seem to fit just right where they slot along the lines of tendons and veins and bones.

Dean breathes. 

“All done. Let me just clean you up.” 

She doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t open his eyes. She uses an old, worn-thin washcloth to wipe off whatever foam is left on his face, and she takes her time, caressing with the steamy-hot cotton. Eventually, Dean hears the slap of wet fabric hitting the sink. 

“Dean,” she whispers. She releases his wrist. 

It’s an effort to drag his eyes open. 

She’s biting her lip, white teeth denting the red curve of it, and she looks oddly overwhelmed for a second, but when Dean blinks up at her, she smiles. She cups his face with both hands and then drags the very tips of her fingers along his jaw, examining her work. Dean feels every feather-light touch, startlingly intense, tingling on his naked skin. 

“You okay?” she asks breathlessly.

Dean’s tongue feels thick and clumsy when he answers, “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

If Dean didn’t know her so well, he might not notice the tiny twitch of her mouth, the one that means she’s surprised, or maybe confused. He feels like he’s missing something. 

Before he can figure out _what_ , she steps forward and sits on his lap, straddling him, her weight solid and grounding. She cups his jaw in her hands again and kisses him gently. 

Heat lances through the base of his stomach. He shudders, feeling dazed and dizzy, and rests his hands on her waist. Her lips brush the newly-smooth skin of his cheek, then the underside of his jaw, then the side of his neck. 

“Love you,” she says, smearing the words against his pulse point and punctuating them with a nip. 

Dean’s shivering, and he’s not sure why. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in the curve of her shoulder, nosing in under the edge of the thick terrycloth robe, and holds her close. 

He feels a little bit lost.

*

Back when he first met her, he used to think _she_ was a little lost. She didn’t seem to know where she was going, and she didn’t seem to care that she didn’t have a map. 

There were flashes of steel and fire, hints of what she was capable of… her strength seemed to show through clearest when they were in bed together, when she’d look up at him with that dare in her eyes and ask for _more_ , ask for _harder, please, I can take it._

He thought it was about the pain, at first. Maybe it was just a chemical buzz, another kind of high. Maybe it grounded her, somehow; she always seemed steadier, after. 

Dean didn’t really understand until the night he showed up on her doorstep, scared and adrift, and let her lead the way. Instead of finding solid ground, though, she’d pulled him away from the shore, dragged him out farther than he’d ever been, laid him bare… Dean had never felt so vulnerable in his life. 

He knows what to expect, with monsters. If it breathes, Dean can kill it; it’s predictable. When it comes to being vulnerable, he’s sailing blind. 

He’d realized something, though, thinking about it later. It wasn’t that she _found_ something in those moments, because she wasn’t _lost_ to begin with. That distance in her eyes, the way she hid, it wasn’t because she was lost, it was because she was _bored_. She described it as sleepwalking: so easy, so safe, she could move on autopilot through the world without really feeling anything. The moments she sparked and flared and burned brightest were the moments when she was _most_ lost. The vulnerability that had scared Dean so much was what made her feel alive. 

“It’s not that I wasn’t scared,” she explained, once. “The fear is the point; it’s about the thrill. But I was with you, so I knew it’d be okay, in the end. Sometimes it’s good to do the things that scare you.” 

“Like one of those crazy people who follow storms,” Dean said. “You chase tornadoes, when the smart thing to do is to run in the other direction.” 

“Exactly.” She grinned ruefully. “I never claimed to be a smart woman.” 

*

“Did I hurt you?” Dean asks, already half-asleep, slurring slightly. He’s finally healed, or at least he can move his shoulder without too much pain, and they’d celebrated with some remarkably athletic (and pretty fucking spectacular) sex. He brushes his lips over a bruise that’s blooming on her upper arm. 

“No,” she whispers, snuggling back against him. “Not like I’d mind, anyway. You know that.” 

Dean’s wondered, but he’s never quite been able to ask; he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. Tonight, for some reason, he can’t help himself: “Do you miss it? The way I used to be, before. Rough.” 

“Not at all,” she says, without hesitating.

“Good,” he mumbles. 

She wriggles around to face him, slipping an arm around his waist, and raises an eyebrow silently. Dean isn’t sure how to explain. He frowns, puzzling through it, and she waits. 

He can’t make himself meet her eyes as he admits, “I feel like I’ve hurt you enough for a lifetime.” 

There’s a long, heavy silence before she kisses him, his upper lip and his lower lip and then the corner of his mouth where he’s starting to smile. She nudges the tip of her nose against his, letting out a slow sigh into the barely-there space between them. Then she settles back on the pillow, and Dean can see her thinking, eyes darting back and forth, looking at his mouth but not really seeing it as she puts the words together. 

“You’d done some of that before,” she says softly. “The… rougher stuff. Before we met.” 

“Some,” he admits. “It was never that… violent. Never that _intense_.”

“Part of it was the Mark. But part of it was you.” 

Dean’s first instinct, always, is to get defensive, when these messy difficult questions come up. He has to fight through the spiky swell of anger in his chest. He’s only angry at himself, and he knows that, but sometimes it gets twisted up and turned around. Sometimes he says things he regrets.

He swallows down the anger and lets himself feel the current of fear underneath. 

“Yeah.” 

She smiles. “The day with the blindfold. _That_ was you.” 

Dean can practically taste the strawberry juice on her lips, when he remembers. He reaches down and finds her hand where it rests on his hip, sliding his palm against hers and lacing their fingers together. He nods.

Her voice is gentle, and it’s not a question, when she says, “And the night before. When you let me take care of you.” 

There’s a flutter of panic in Dean’s chest, but he admits, “Yeah.” 

“You’d never done that with anyone else.” 

She knows the answer to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her and tries to swallow his fear. He knows she’s not bringing it up to hurt him. He _knows_ that, and yet… he’s bracing himself, preparing for her to use that moment of weakness against him, somehow. 

He rubs his thumb over the backs of her fingers, trying to reassure himself with the contact, and she lifts their joined hands to kiss his knuckles.

“You’d always been the one in control before,” she prompts. 

“Yeah. I like -” 

“Do you _like_ being in control? Or were you used to it?” 

Dean sputters for a second, feeling that prickle of anger again. She squeezes his hand and gives him a sweet, open, naked smile, nothing but love behind her eyes, and the anger melts away as suddenly as it came. 

He closes his eyes and presses his lips to her forehead, instead of trying to answer around the lump in his throat. 

“You were different then.” 

“I mean, of _course_ , the Mark -” 

“I’m not just talking about the Mark. People change.”

“You liked it, though. Right?” Dean asks. 

“Yeah. But I didn’t fall in love with the… the control, or the way you tied me up, or any of that. I fell in love with _you_ ,” she says fiercely. 

“You still love me,” he says, and he hates how it comes out like a question. She rolls her eyes and kisses the tip of his nose. 

“Of course. You’re different, now. But you’re still _you_.”

Dean makes a face. Sometimes he doesn’t want to be the same person who did all those things. 

“I guess.” 

She frowns, like he’s missing the point, still. “I don’t expect you to always be the same as you were.” 

“You mean… in bed, or -” 

She sighs. “Other people have always expected you to be in control. And you expected it of yourself. Right?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. He takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“Doesn’t mean that’s how things always have to be,” she whispers. 

Dean’s been anchored by the weight of other peoples’ expectations for as long as he can remember. He feels like he’s coming unmoored. 

*

Dean remembers the night he met her. His chest was tight, full of everything he’d been working so hard to hold back. The Mark brought out the animal in him, the destructive rage, the desire to rip something apart just to watch it bleed… but he was still _Dean_. He was still determined to take care of people, to take care of Sammy, to be strong and hold it back. He was determined to protect everyone around him from the violence within him. He was determined to keep it under control. 

He remembers the distant, capable smile she wore as she served him drinks. He remembers the way she put her hands behind her back and looked up at him with raw, naked hunger in her eyes, nothing shuttered, nothing hidden. He could see how much she meant it when she asked, _please hurt me._

_**Please** _ _hurt me._

He would never have given in, if she hadn’t asked. He would’ve fought it back, walled it up, until it killed him. 

He asked her about it, one night: “You kept asking for more. Even when I thought I was giving you exactly what you wanted.”

“You were holding back,” she said, matter-of-fact, with that unspoken _duh_ in her voice that Dean knows so well. She said it as if it should be obvious. 

_You were holding back._ She didn’t say, _I wanted more_. She didn’t say, _I wanted to know if you were holding back._ She already knew. 

He mulled it over and asked, “You didn’t think maybe there was a _reason_ I was holding back? I could’ve hurt you.” 

She shrugged. “I just didn’t want you to hold back. Not with me.” 

Thing is, that’s what Dean _does_ , with women. 

He’ll always remember the look in Cassie’s eyes when he tried to tell her the truth, the way her lip curled when she said _you’re crazy, just go._ Even with Lisa, even when he thought he was being honest… he tried to live two lives, with her, and it almost tore him apart. She expected him to leave part of himself at the door, when he came back to her. 

_You were holding back._

She still has to ask, sometimes. In a million little ways, now, she has asked him to stop holding back. Sometimes he falls back into the habit of it, the habit of control, the habit of hiding, but she’s shown him, over and over again, that he doesn’t have to protect her. 

He trusts her to know her own limits. They established that a long time ago, and he’ll always remember the way she said it, steely-eyed, jaw set: _I promise I’ll tell you if you cross a line._

Sometimes it scares the ever-loving shit out of him, but he’s starting to realize that she would never ask for something that he couldn’t give. 

*

“You’re telegraphing,” he says sharply. “Your left arm’s giving you away.” 

She rolls her shoulders and re-settles into her stance, baring her teeth in something like a grin.

She’s so fucking determined to beat him before it’s time to quit for dinner. Tendrils of hair are plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she’s flushed, but not in the delicate, pretty, blushing-maiden sort of way; her entire face is red, dripping sweat. Dean thinks she’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. 

She lunges faster than he expected. He twists away from her, but she follows the movement, tackling him while he’s shifting his weight, and he falls. He laughs breathlessly as his back hits the mat. 

“Not bad,” he says, and he reaches for her to pull her down. She’s not fast enough to dance out of the way, and she goes down hard, grunting, already fighting back. 

She flips him onto his back, straddles him, and grins. “Gotcha.” 

Dean could get the better of her, but he’d rather enjoy the way she smiles, bright and feral, sitting back on her heels to look down at him. 

“You win.” 

A drop of sweat slides down her neck and rolls toward her cleavage. Dean wants to lick it off her. 

He tries to sit up. She grabs his wrists before he can manage it, and she slams him back down on the mat, pinning him, eyes intent and focused. Her fingers squeeze tight around his wrists, holding him in place, one hand on either side of his head, and Dean can’t help it: he shudders, heat going through him like a kick to the gut. 

He blinks up at her slowly, panting. Her eyes go heavy-lidded as she stares down at him. He squirms, straining experimentally against the weight of her body and the force of her grip. 

“Stay,” she says, quiet but sharp. Dean gulps in a breath, completely overwhelmed by the pressure of her straddling his hips (legs spread, grinding down, _fuck,_ he’s only human) and grasping his wrists (fingers gripping so tight it almost hurts) and looking down at him dark-eyed and triumphant, and he’s getting hard so fast he can’t fucking see straight. 

“You -” Dean starts, but she rolls her hips and whatever he was about to say is forgotten immediately, lost in a mangled cry, obliterated by the rough friction where she’s rubbing herself against him. She does it again, moving snakelike and sexy, this undulation that goes through her torso like a wave and drags her up the length of his dick, and he can feel the heat of her center all spread-open through the thin fabric of both of their workout clothes. 

She’s watching his reaction through half-closed eyes, mouth slack as she pants, and Dean might be self-conscious if this wasn’t clearly doing it for _her_ , too. He bucks up against her, feeling the jolt of pleasure at the same time he hears her ragged gasp. 

“Yeah,” she says roughly. “Fuck, Dean.” 

Dean’s fingers flex open and ball into fists, and when he arches his back, tries to rock up against her grasp, there’s a flash of pain in his wrists, the promise of bruises forming under the sweaty skin. His curse comes out broken and hoarse, like a plea. 

Everything is damp and hot and close, both of them dripping sweat, fucking _disgusting_ , not to mention the fact that they’re on the goddamn _floor_ , rutting against each other right here in the middle of the padded training space. The plastic mat is slick under Dean’s back. He tries to focus on that, tries to ground himself in the details instead of getting lost in the onslaught of pressure where their bodies are touching. 

“Shower,” he growls, almost incomprehensible through gritted teeth. 

“No. Right here.” 

She’s whimpering with every uneven grind of her hips, and Dean wants to taste her, just like this. He wants to lick salt off her inner thigh, suck sweat from the crease of her hip, bury his face between her legs and fuck her open with his tongue, make her come so hard she’s still shaking when he finally slides into her...

“Need you,” he chokes. “Jesus, fuck, let me touch you.” 

“Just like this,” she gasps. “Wanna watch you cream yourself for me, first.” 

_Christ_ he loves when she gets bossy. He _jabs_ up, heels digging into the floor, putting everything he’s got into the thrust. Her hips twist and scoop and _shove_ against him, just a shade too hard, dry and rough, almost painfully intense. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. He feels like he’s about to come out of his skin, split wide open, just _burst_ with how good it feels. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “Fuck, _fuck_ , don’t stop.” 

“Not gonna stop,” she says hoarsely. “Not until you come for me. Fuckin’... make a mess for me, Dean, gonna lick it off you, get you all cleaned up, and then I’m gonna ride your mouth until you’re ready to go again, _fuck,_ please.” 

Dean moans, head pressing back into the mat as he arches his back helplessly, fireworks going off behind his eyelids as his body goes tight and shaky. 

“Please,” she gasps again.

Dean would give her anything if she asked, would go to the ends of the fucking earth for her, beyond that, off the edges where the maps go blank and the monsters wait to drag him down. 

“ _Please_ , Dean.”

It spikes through him sharp and hard, so intense he’s afraid it’ll rip him apart. He lets himself get lost in it. 

*

Nobody _really_ wants to see what’s at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. They may like the _idea_ of the unknown, the thrill of going somewhere new, but when they’re actually down there surrounded by the crushing black and the things with too many teeth… humans weren’t meant for that kind of darkness. 

If people could see what lurked under the surface, they’d never wade into the ocean again. 

Dean has learned, over and over again, to hold back certain parts of himself: the blood and the violence, the crushing darkness, the things with too many teeth. It’s a simple matter of self-preservation. Sasha (Sandra?), Jenny (Jessie?), Cassie, Lisa, and all the rest would’ve run in the other direction if they knew what was waiting for them, and Dean would expect nothing less; that’d be the smart thing to do. 

Dean’s life is a fucking nightmare. He’s used to it, and the monsters don’t scare him any more. The monsters are the easy part. He’s used to it, but he’d never expect someone else to get used to it. 

Being in love, being in a relationship, being honest, not holding back… it terrifies Dean in a way that monsters never have. There’s no map for what they’re doing. 

He knows she’s scared too. He knows this is just as new for her. They’re both learning together, helping each other along, but it doesn’t seem to bother her, not like it bothers Dean. In the moments when he starts to panic, when the winds are whipping gale-force around them and Dean can’t see the way out, she just keeps moving forward. She’s always so serene, like she’s made herself a home in the eye of a hurricane. 

She’s seen the worst of him, and she’s still right there by his side, her fingers laced with his. No matter how dark it is, no matter how lost they get, she’s there: asking him to take one more step, asking him not to hold back, asking him to trust her. She would never ask for something he couldn’t give. 

*

“What’s this?” Dean asks, and she smiles, eyes sparkling, as she hands him a sleek little black box. 

“Figured I’d save this one for when your brother wasn’t around.” 

“I like the sound of that,” Dean grins. He sits down on the bed, and she sits next to him, her hand at the small of his back, stroking one of the knobs of his spine. 

“Happy birthday.” 

He kisses her on the cheek quickly, and she’s still smiling, but she looks nervous now. 

He pulls off the top of the box, gently unfolding a layer of black tissue paper. The cuffs are simple brown leather, thick and solid but buttery-smooth, lined with creamy sheepskin. They look _masculine_ , and for one disorienting moment Dean thinks, _These don’t look like something she’d wear._

He forgets how to breathe, for a moment. 

He picks one of them up, tracing the cool metal of the heavy ring, and runs a finger over the place where a lock would fit to the buckle. His heart is hammering against his ribs. 

“What -” he starts numbly, but no, he knows what they are, so he tries again: “ _Why_? Why would you think…” 

The words catch and stick in his throat. He can’t look at her. 

She doesn’t say anything. 

Dean puts the box to the side. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and runs his hands through his hair, and then he stands, pacing back and forth in the narrow space. He doesn’t know what else to do with himself; there’s too much inside him, anger churning like the choppy surf in the first squalls of a storm. 

He’s going to say something he regrets, he _knows_ he is, can feel the bitter words slithering up like a living thing, all fangs and tentacles, threatening to drag him under.

“What the _fuck_ makes you think I would want to do that?” he bites out. “Why would you just fucking assume - assume that I -” 

He turns to glare at her, and she looks back at him, unruffled. She doesn’t look surprised by his reaction. That might be the worst part. She’s giving him a patient little half-smile, just waiting for the storm to pass. 

His hands are shaking. He balls them into fists to try to steady himself. 

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he snarls, with so much venom in his voice that his throat burns. “Don’t _fucking_ tell me -” 

“I’m _asking_ you,” she interrupts calmly. “Please try this with me?” 

Dean hisses out one breath and sucks in another. He blinks at her, fists clenching instinctively. The anger is ebbing away. His vision blurs with a swell of saltwater. He scrubs the tears away, and she’s smiling at him, gorgeous and hopeful. 

“I don’t know if I can -” he starts, and stutters to a stop. 

She stands and steps into his space, slowly, giving him time to back away, but he reaches out for her and pulls her to his chest. She wraps her arms around him and holds on tight. 

“No pressure,” she whispers, and kisses the hollow of his throat. “Just think about it for me. Please?” 

Dean breathes, slow and shuddery, in and out. He knows she would never ask for something he couldn’t give. 

“Just… not tonight,” he says hoarsely. “Tonight I just want you.” 

“You’ve got me, always,” she says, and he can hear her smile. 

He walks her back to the bed and sinks down on top of her, running his hands over her body like he hasn’t mapped it a thousand times already with his fingers and teeth and tongue. 

She lets him take the lead, lets him set the pace, lets him pin her to the mattress and kiss every inch of her. He sinks in slow, fingers laced with hers. His heart races and his head spins. 

It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done this. It doesn’t matter how well Dean knows her. He _always_ gets lost in her. It _always_ scares him. 

_Here there be monsters._

It doesn’t matter if they’re lost at sea, as long as they’re together. When Dean’s with her, he’s home. 


End file.
